Friday, October 22, 2004

When Going Gets Tough

I have never had the occasion to use a women’s restroom, but I can’t imagine it could possibly be as interesting and horrifying as a trip to the men’s room. I like to believe that ladies spend their bathroom time chatting, checking their mascara and gossiping that the whorish receptionist with the fake tits is schtuping the boss. I won’t even entertain the notion that women actually move their bowels in there. That’s just so unladylike.

To the contrary, a safari into the men’s room is a life-threatening journey into a lair rife with filth and obscenity and discarded pubes. Men go to the restroom to perform acts so biologically vile and putrid that to engage in such behavior in the presence of a woman would violate the foundational laws of humanity (to say nothing of one’s civil rights).

Don’t believe me? Fine. Here is a sampling of what I have seen in men’s rooms this week alone:

1) There is a man in my office building who turns the simple act of defecation into a gospel music concert. I walked into the bathroom the other day and, although I could not see him, I got the distinct impression that he was trying to pass a small import sedan through his anus. “Oh, sweet Jesus…frpt….oh, lord mercy…frrptFRAAAAP…oh, lord, be with me, Jesus…foowahwahwaaaaaah…” And then there was silence. Moments later, after I had returned to my desk, the receptionist’s voice blared over the intercom. “Will the owner of a brown Mitsubishi please return to the men’s room. You’re double-parked.”

2) When I was at the bookstore yesterday, I set down the issue of Auto Upholstery Weekly (the swimsuit issue) I was reading and retired to the facilities. One of the two urinals was available, the other occupied by a bearded man in a leather jacket. I unzipped and began to, you know, go. I noticed almost immediately that the grizzly dude next to me was peeing with such superhuman velocity that his flow actually made a hissing sound, as if it was being shot out of a pressure hose. Suddenly, the sound stopped. Was he done? Sadly not. What followed was the kind of fart that would be funny if it came from John Belushi on a movie screen, but not the kind that’s funny if you’re standing a foot an a half away from it. It was long and loud and forceful and I swear I heard the guy’s butt cheeks clapping together from the power of it. And then he started peeing again.

3)During dinner at a Mexican restaurant this week, Left-Handed Power-Hitting Son told me he needed to go pee-pee (his words, not mine). We marched off to The Little Amigos’ Room, locked the stall door and pulled down his Buzz Lightyear underpants together. As he began to pee, I made sure that he wasn’t reverting back to his old game of resting his happy bag on the toilet. Without warning, my son got his first-ever attack of the pee chills. His little body shivered violently, thereby sending his spray back and forth across the stall like a garden hose that had been cranked to full blast without anyone holding it. The industrial green metal walls of the stall, the toilet paper rack, the terra cotta floor tiles and the toilet itself were doused with my son’s urine. I thought momentarily about trying to dab it up with the one-ply TP, but then I came to my senses. “Come on, bud,” I said, pulling my son’s undies up. “Let’s go wash our hands and get out of here. Our chimichangas are getting cold.”

4)I was taking a leak at the office when Annoying Co-Worker Bob came in, walked up to the urinal next to me and began talking about the Boston Red Sox. As he spoke and peed, he was looking at me.

“See that game last night?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, staring at the wall in front of me. Unfortunately, I am not able to urinate and speak simultaneously. I have to interrupt my flow to answer each question.

“Man, I hate the fucking Yankees. Who do you want to win?

“Boston.” God, please make him shut up and look away.

“But wait,” he says. “I thought you were an Angel fan.”

I stop peeing. I maintain my gaze at the wall. I speak, angrily: “Bob, I’m trying to take a piss. Can you please stop talking to me? And for God’s sake, man, keep your eyes on your own wiener!”

“Geez,” he says, apparently surprised by my outrage. “Sorrrrrry.”

I finish my business in peace, zip up and walk over to the sink. Bob does the same and begins washing his hands in the next sink over.

My daughter was concerned about me just now as I was reading this post. She thought I was having a seizure. Pretty funny.

I can relate to your stage fright. I can't go if there's a guy standing next to me at all; he doesn't even have to talk. Commando goes on strike. He just won't function in any way when exposed in the presence of other men.

by the way, women do not ever move their bowels in public. frankly, i resent the implication that we move our bowels at any time in any place. you know what, in future maybe it's best to not even mention that we have bowels. let's just keep that little bit of business a mystery.

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Other Humans Write

Here are actual questions you asked the presidential candidates when they appeared on your show. To Bush: 'Were y'all spankers?" To Kerry: "Did you ever spank the girls?" To Bush: "Did you spank them?" To Kerry: "What did she do to get spanked?" Hey, Dr. Phil, keep it in your pleated pants. [GQ Magazine, Dec. 2004, pg. 372]